The Butterfly Garden (The Collector #1)(79)

“Then you’ll understand if I don’t offer to let you drive.”

Her lips twitch. The easy laughter and comfortable atmosphere they’d finally achieved in the room is gone, vanished in the face of what they’ve been working toward all along.

“Is there a reason I have to sit in the back?” Eddison complains.

“Would you like me to invent one?”

“Fine, but I get to pick the music.”

“No.”

The girl arches an eyebrow, and Victor grimaces.

“He likes country.”

“Please don’t let him pick,” she says pleasantly as she slides into the seat.

Chuckling, he waits for her legs to be clear before he closes the door.

“Where are we going on our little field trip?” Eddison asks as the men cross to the other side of the car.

“First stop is coffee, then we’re going to the hospital.”

“So she can check on the girls?”

“That too.”

Rolling his eyes, Eddison lets it go and settles into the backseat.




When they arrive at the hospital, coffees in hand—tea, for Inara—the entire building is surrounded with news vans and gawkers. The part of him that’s been doing this job for too long wonders if every parent who’s ever lost a girl between sixteen and eighteen is out there with a candle and a blown-up picture, hoping for the best, or maybe even hoping for the worst so long as the nightmare of not knowing is finally over. Some stare at their cell phones, waiting for a call that, for many, will never come.

“Are the rooms blocked off for the girls?” she asks, angling her face away from the passenger window and letting her hair fall forward to hide her further.

“Yes, with guards at the doors.” He squints ahead at the emergency entrance to see if he can get away with bringing her in through there, but four ambulances fill the bay with a flurry of activity around them.

“I can walk past a few reporters if I need to. They can’t honestly expect me to talk about it.”

“Did you ever watch the news in the city?”

“We caught it every now and then at Taki’s when we were getting food,” she answers with a shrug. “We didn’t have a TV, and most of the people we hung out with only had their sets hooked into game platforms or DVD players. Why?”

“Because they do expect you to talk about it, even when they know you’re not allowed to. They will shove their microphones in your face and ask you personal questions with no sensitivity and they’ll share your answers with anyone who cares to listen.”

“So . . . they’re like the FBI?”

“First Hitler, now reporters,” Eddison says. “I’m thrilled you have such a high opinion of us.”

“I clearly don’t know enough about reporters to find them offensive, so I don’t know that it’s too terrible.”

“If you don’t mind wading through them, we can head in,” Victor says before either of them can add anything else. He parks the car and walks around to open the door for her. “They’re going to be yelling,” he cautions her. “They’ll be loud and in your face, and there will be cameras flashing everywhere. There will be parents asking questions about their girls, wanting to know if you’ve seen them. And there’ll be people insulting you.”

“Insulting me?”

“There are always some people who feel that the victim must have deserved it,” he explains. “They’re idiots, but they’re often vocal. Of course you don’t deserve it, no one deserves to get kidnapped or raped or murdered, but they’ll say it anyway because they believe it or because they want a few seconds of attention, and because we protect free speech, we can’t do anything about it.”

“I guess I grew so used to the horrors of the Garden, I forgot how awful Outside could be.”

He’d give anything to tell her that it isn’t true.

But it is, so he stays silent.

They walk out of the garage to the main entrance, the agents flanking the girl protectively, and the lights and sounds rise to a fever pitch. The girl ignores them with grave dignity, staring straight ahead, refusing to even listen to the questions, much less answer them. There are barricades to keep everyone back from the path to the hospital, with local police manning them. They’re almost to the doors when one enterprising woman crawls under the barricade and between an officer’s legs, her microphone cord trailing behind her.

“What is your name? Are you one of the victims?” she demands, waving her mic in front of her.

The girl doesn’t answer, doesn’t even look at her, and Victor signals for the officer to take the woman away.

“With a tragedy such as this, you owe the public the full story!”

Her thumb still rubs thoughtfully against the little blue dragon, but she turns to look at the reporter, who struggles against the officer’s grip on her arms. “I think if you actually knew anything about the case you’re claiming to report,” she says softly, “you’d have better sense than to suggest I owe anyone a thing.” She nods to the officer and resumes her progress to the sliding doors. Cries follow her, those closest to the door asking after missing girls, but everything fades to a dull roar when the doors hiss shut behind them.